Suspension of a Life in Progress
by Lorelai's Asleep
Summary: There are obviously still questions out there that need answers. Pre-ep for "Nothing Important Happened Today." Disclaimer: Not mine.


It looks out of place. Burnished bright and sharply edged, its prominence on his key ring bespeaks no apology to the other keys tarnished with age and use. He's carried one like it for years but up until the last few months, it's always been a loaner marked with a snippet of tape and her name alone. This one is his and his fingers curl around the solidity of brass as he isolates it from the rest. He slips the key into the lock and feels the tumbler drop, releasing the latch. Pushing forward, he enters and in customary fashion, scans the interior. It smells like vanilla and talcum powder and her. Evening shadows fill the room.

She's sitting in profile by the window, but she doesn't acknowledge him. All is still and a momentary flutter of anxiety rises in his chest. He looks closer, breathing only when he sees the rocker move. They're okay. His heartbeat slows once more. He tosses his keys onto the table and unzips the front of his windbreaker. Drawing a glass of cool water from the tap, he drinks it down, moisture sliding over his chin and down his throat. His back is pressed to the counter's ledge.

All the while, he watches them.

Back and forth, to and fro, in a slow rhythmic cadence known only to time and new mothers, she rocks. The swaddled bundle in her arms stirs and she inclines her head, cooing words he cannot hear, though he knows their intent just the same; knows because he's felt her breath on his own face, sweet and warm. The child cradled in her arms, he understands. She would care for anyone tendered to her care. But him? How could it be? He doesn't quite believe it, but it is enough that she does.

He imagines her the day they met: the awful suit that concealed her beautiful body; her cool hand slipping into his as introduction, as invitation, as intervention; her nervousness, though she masked it well with an assertion of authority. He recalls his admiration of her intelligence, his surprise at her willingness to listen and his forced dismissal of her as sexual distraction.

Diana had left him a note, in ornate hand, just two weeks prior. He was incapable of change, his work consumed him and no mere woman could compete with Mistress Obsession for very long. That's what she told him and he couldn't argue. It hurt like hell just the same.

Scully didn't try to compete and wasn't much interested in changing him, either. Good. He was relieved when she kept her distance. Right? Well, there was always the work and she was more than competent, though difficult. They were partners and, in due time, friends. He would have been satisfied with that, if that was all she could offer. But something happened along the way and platonic became ever more complicated. And unwanted.

Setting the glass onto the counter, he moves towards them, pausing beside the arch leading from the kitchen into the living room. He presses a shoulder against the wall and focuses his attention on the sight before him, willing his mind to absorb every detail. Scully's head is bent towards the baby, hair cascading across her face as mother and child communicate without words. A wry smile twitches his mouth as he thinks, "family trait." She's let her hair grow and he approves.

He likes the way it caresses her neck, like liquid amber framing her face. He loves the silken slide of it through his fingers when he pulls her close to capture her mouth and kiss her thoroughly. He recalls the way she looks when she lifts it off her neck, astride him in candlelit night. His loins ache as he remembers the way she breathes his name like Song of Songs. How long _has_ it been since they'd last made love? Too long, he decides, for a man well aware of the great disparity between fantasy and reality when it comes to loving Dana Scully.

He doesn't remember the moment he fell in love for the last time in his life, but images rise in his mind just the same. Summer of '94. Another sweltering evening spent in the basement of the Hoover since the a/c in his apartment was on the fritz again. Cold pizza and warm beer sat atop a stack of folders while he perused back files for possible inquiry. It was well after hours and he was engrossed in reading when he heard her voice.

"Even aliens take an occasional weekend, Mulder."

"Hey, Scully. Take a look at this," he said, hoping to detain her. It still surprised him that she went out of her way just to say good bye every day, but he had to admit he liked it just the same. She sighed, checked her watch and entered.

"What's the matter?" he inquired as she approached. "Got a date?"

"Actually, Mulder... yes." His breath caught for a fraction of a second though his face betrayed no emotion. "With my mother." He exhaled.

"I just thought you'd be interested in hearing about this. It can wait," he said. "Go see your mom."

"What is it?"

"You'll be late."

"Mulder, you know you won't be happy until you've given me at least the bare outline. You'll call me after I've gone to bed to tell me what you could just as easily tell me now. Then I'll be awake, thinking about the case and wondering about _your_ take on things." She paused for breath before adding, "So?"

He weighed his options and after a moment's thought said, "What do you know about..." The topic didn't matter. She stayed. She listened. She cared. About him, his opinions, his feelings. He was hooked regardless of what she could or couldn't give, did or didn't feel, wanted or needed or hell-– None of it made sense, but that's how falling in love felt to him. Shit. And now they are here, against all odds. Parents. Surreal, even in context of his life.

He shifts his weight to the balls of his feet. Pushing away from the wall, he crosses the room until he's beside her. He hovers in silence above them. Her white cotton blouse is unbuttoned and one side of her nursing bra undone. Her arms encircle their son who is busy rooting at her left breast. She's still again and when he looks into her face, he notes closed eyes.

Security. It is what they will never have, but for blessed moments like this - moments so fleeting in their worried lives he commits them to memory before they vanish forever. Nothing is simple or safe and his return to life has proven to be just another act in a wayward drama he's never understood completely. But this, now, he owns forever. And so, he watches their son suckle his mother. Funny. He thought the sight might bother him. It doesn't. On the contrary, it feels natural and all he wants to do is to protect them both.

Squatting down, he watches the boy's reddened, scrunched-up features as he fusses, having lost the nipple that provides such comfort and sustenance. Scully's lids lift and he looks into sleepy blue eyes.

"Good run?" He nods.

Baby's discontent grows louder and Scully sighs with a soft murmur. Her hand helps the rosebud mouth find her again and frustration becomes contentment. She strokes the velvety head and coos, "There now. That's better, isn't it?"

Mulder considers them both. "I think I'm jealous."

Shaking her head, she smiles despite herself and pushes at him with her free hand. "You can just go away if you're going to be ridiculous."

"Seriously, I think I'm jealous."

"Of a newborn?"

"Of anyone who gets your undivided attention besides me."

"Guess you'll have to grow up then."

"Guess so," he agrees in a soft voice then stands, kissing her cheek as he rises. "Don't forget dad needs you, too," he murmurs in her ear.

"He'll be asleep soon."

"I'll be waiting." His response is calculated to send a message he doesn't want misconstrued. Her catch of breath and sigh tells him his missive has hit the mark.

He enters the bedroom. He toes off sneakers and peels off socks, leaving them where they drop. He sloughs out of clothes at a leisured pace, tossing articles onto a chintz-covered chair. The bedcovers are tumbled. Ahh, compromise. She's always been fastidious, while he? He was a "bear with furniture." At least, he used to be. Scully has stored most of his personal belongings and he's replaced what he absolutely needed. The home to which he returned following resurrection was Her, not a suite of rooms or tangible goods, with one exception: the key to *their* apartment.

"Let me do this, Scully."

"No."

"It makes sense. I want to be there for you both."

"I can take of myself. And William."

"I know that. It just doesn't feel right otherwise."

"We had an agreement, Mulder. You don't owe me anything."

"Wrong," he said before slipping his hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out a small red velvet box. She stared at the box and then, at him.

"It belonged to my grandmother," he said and without waiting for a response, opened the case and placed the filigreed silver band on her left hand. "Unless..." He stopped then, looking into her face, realizing he'd assumed her willingness.

Too large on the fourth digit, she transferred it to her middle finger. "It's beautiful," she breathed, eyes still averted.

"I'll take that as a yes?" Hope was a whisper and he discovered he was short of breath.

"It's crazy," she insisted sotto voce to no one in particular.

"It's time," he affirmed and she lifted her eyes, the smile on her lips shimmering in the moistness there. "We'll make it official as soon as you're up to it."

And that, as they say, was that.

He turns down the a/c several notches and strips before heading for the shower. Ancient pipes groan as hot water rushes from the tap. He adjusts the spray and steps under, closing his eyes as soothing warmth cascades over his weary body. He reaches down to grab a plastic bottle, snapping open the cap and squeezing goo into his hand while he turns around, water slapping the small of his back. Soaping his head, he hears the snick of the door he left unlocked and opens his eyes.

"Everything okay?" he asks, pausing his routine.

"He's sleeping-"

"Like a baby?"

"How'd you guess?"

"I'm a profiler, remember?" He hears her amused groan and smiles before he tips his head back under the spray, listening to the rush of water around him. The chink of plastic on porcelain and the hiss of a baby monitor, refitted to D.O.D. standards courtesy of the Gunmen, fills the room. He listens for the unmistakable sough and rustle of cloud-covered sheets as Will settles for the night. The sound of a sink tap opening gives too little warning before he's doused with cold water. "There's somebody in here!" She chortles, but the tap shuts down.

She's going through her evening routine and though he's known her for years, sharing intimate habits is new. The fantasies playing in his head tantalize. He swings open the glass door and poking his head out of the stall, inquires, "Care to join me? I could use a playmate."

She turns and her face is fresh-scrubbed, her natural beauty needing no disguise. Crossing her arms over her chest, she leans back against the sink. "First of all, Mulder, I've been up since five. Second, Will was cranky for hours this afternoon. I think it's colic."

"You're the doctor," he jests, stepping from the stall dripping wet. Her appreciative eyes flick down his body and back to his own. His satisfied grin draws a small, secretive smile from her.

"Pathology, Mulder, not Pediatrics," she says in a serious tone, though her eyes are twinkling.

"And third?" he shoots back, unabashed as he towels off. He embraces the comforts of shared, every day life in a way he's never known before. Besides, he likes the idea of her watching him. Arousal shoots through him and the result is evident; well, half evident.

"Third?" She pauses, cocking her head to one side, demure receding as the bathroom steams with more than condensation.

He wraps the towel low around his hips, clutching at one corner as he moves towards her. He makes no excuses for his proximity or his actions as his free hand finds her waist and pulls her nearer. Her figure is full and round and he wants her very much.

"This is _your_ list, Scully, remember?"

"Third," she repeats, unwilling to meet his gaze. "My doctor says it'll be six weeks before we can..." Her voice trails off and when she looks up, she's blushing with a shy smile.

"Six?" His disappointment is obvious. She nods. "Weeks?" he adds. Her exaggerated "sad face" reveals her own disappointment. His head drops back onto his neck and he closes his eyes. He steps back, re-wrapping the clinging towel around his waist, tucking in the corner at his hip. "Death was easier than this," he mutters to himself.

"Hey," she murmurs in a voice laced with honey. He looks back and she approaches. Her hands skim along damp forearms and up along his biceps, coming to rest on his shoulders. He shivers though he isn't cold. "There are other things we can do," she informs him with an arch of her brows. Her hand cradles the back of his neck, pulling him down towards her waiting mouth. Hands become allies, fingers entwining in one another's hair as lips and teeth and tongues stake their claim and they breathe love to each other...

The knock on the door, when it comes, wakes him with a start.

Mulder's eyes crack open and he rubs away sleep with the fingers of one hand. A yawn grips him and moisture pools in the corners of his eyes, weariness heavy on him. He sits up, looks to his left and sees the burnished head resting on the pillow besides his stir.

"I'll take care of it," he tells Scully, throwing off the coverlet before slipping out of bed. The pounding repeats its rhythm; four, heavy knuckled raps demanding notice. Padding to the doorway in nothing more than flannel bottoms and tee, he leans his head to one shoulder, then the other, stretching stiff muscles. The sound repeats with insistence and he curses under his breath, spying through the peephole to identify the asshole banging the door at 3 a.m.

He swings the entry open, more confused than surprised at the sight of Walter Skinner. "What is it?" he rasps.

"I need to talk to you."

"It's 3 o'clock in the morning."

"This can't wait," his visitor informs. With a jut of his chin towards the interior, he asks, "May I?"

Mulder lifts a hand, waves it through the air in a grand gesture and steps aside to allow Skinner entry. Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, he wills himself awake. Something was going down. Skinner stands just inside the door, waiting for his agent's full attention. Mulder pushes the door closed and runs a hand through his hair as he walks past the older man.

"I'm sorry—" Skinner begins, only to be interrupted by Mulder's gesture of a finger pressed to his lips.

"They're asleep."

"No, I'm not," a voice says from the bedroom doorway. Scully is there, robe askew over pajamas, concern clear on her face.

"I'm sorry to disturb you-" Skinner begins.

"What's going on?" Mulder interrupts.

Skinner's head jerks back to the man, his voice serious. "I got a call about an hour ago. Somebody told me your life was in danger if you stayed in Washington."

"Who?" Scully demands. "Who called?"

Skinner looks from one agent to the other. "I don't know."

"Male or female?" Mulder asks.

"The voice was digitally disguised." Mulder nods and slumps onto the sofa with a deep sigh.

"It came in on my cellphone, which was also odd," Skinner adds.

"Who has that number?" Mulder inquires.

"Not many, but it wouldn't be difficult to get."

"For someone in the Bureau, you mean." Skinner nods.

"To what end?" Scully asks, sitting beside Mulder.

"Coup de grace," Mulder interjects with conviction. Two sets of equally interested eyes swing towards him. His hands are tucked behind his head and his expression tells of his annoyance. "Excuse the analogy, but I'd say Kersh wants to nail the lid shut on the coffin of my FBI career."

"Mulder." Scully's voice reveals her discomforture with his words. Her body is still turned towards Skinner, but her right hand reaches out, coming to rest on Mulder's knee. She won't look at him, but her grasp is firm and Mulder discerns worry in the crease of her brow and the purse of her mouth.

Skinner's eyes dart, taking in the intimate gestures. "I thought you should know." The small cooing cries of a baby drift towards them. Scully rises.

"I'm sorry," Skinner says. "It's my fault."

"No," Scully responds in a gentle voice. "It's time for his feeding." Casting a glance back at Mulder, she leaves the two men to continue.

Mulder's eyes follow her, closing only after she's disappeared from sight. He runs his hands over his face, then looks at Skinner who's moved to stand beside the window, eyes squinting as he gazes outward. "What is it?" he asks.

"I don't know. Just a feeling," Skinner replies without turning.

Mulder stands and crosses the room, peering towards the dark vehicle Skinner points out. "I may have been followed." Both are quiet, watching the street and listening to the sounds of Scully soothing the baby in the bedroom. After a few moments, Skinner asks low, "How's he doing?" Mulder glances at him.

"Will? He's good. He's perfect, in fact." Despite the seriousness of their prior conversation, Mulder can't help but allow a trace of pride creep into his voice.

Skinner nods his understanding with a wry look. "I have to admit, it's a little disconcerting to think of him as your son."

A self-effacing smile steals over Mulder's features. "And Scully's," he adds.

Skinner nods. "I'm glad for you. Really. You both deserve some happiness." He pauses, fidgeting with awkwardness.

Mulder moves away from the window. "You believe this mystery caller?" He stops midway to the bedroom, turns and casts a meaningful glance towards the open door and back to Skinner, uncertain if Scully is listening within.

Skinner looks Mulder in the eyes. "I...don't...know," he says with a slow nod of his head. "It could be a hoax, although seems like a lot of trouble for Kersh to go through just to keep your wings clipped."

"Kersh is a scared little man. He doesn't just want me out of the Bureau, he wants me out of the picture."

"What will you do?"

Before he can respond, Scully reappears, Will's compact form snuggled against her, his head bobbing at her shoulder. The two agents look at one another, unspoken communication sharper than ever. Mulder tries to sort out the players in this new drama, but there's been a recasting. Things are not what they were and he doesn't have the luxury of figuring out an elegant solution.

"I'm staying," he avows.

"Mulder, no," Scully interjects, as he expected. She moves until she is standing before him. "Whoever is at the bottom of this, we will find out. We will. But you should go, at least for a while. We'll be fine."

"That's crap," he growls. Then his voice softens, his expression earnest. "My place is here."

"Yes," she agrees, looking into his face, devotion shining in her countenance. "But I need you alive. I need to know you're safe."

"She's right," Skinner adds. "I'm not sure who or what's behind this, but I can't guarantee anybody's safety at this point." Mulder sends a pointed look at the man, deciphering Skinner's meaning at once. This isn't about him at all.

"There are obviously still questions out there that need answers."

Both men turn towards the source of the statement and the sorrow in Scully's face matches their own...

She turns to him in the darkness, molding her body against hears her sigh and when she lifts her face to his, he kisses her with tenderness. His lips move to her cheek and he tastes the salt of tears.

"When?" she asks, although they both know the answer.

"As soon as possible."

"I want-"

"No," he states without hearing her finish. "You need to be here. You know that." He shares her apprehensions, but there's no helping it. There is no security in the world, he thinks, but this. Here, in the haven of Scully's arms, he finds respite.

"You'll contact me," she admonishes.

"In time."

"You'll be careful."

"Of course."

"You'll come home."

He presses her onto her back, then, and stares into her eyes. He nods before kissing her long and deep. She is pliant and warm and his. When they part, she shifts in his arms, nestling her back against his front. He holds her close, listening to her breathe as the hours they have remaining together slip into eternity like starlight.

In time, sleep overwhelms her again. Mulder cannot rest. Moving in slow time, he eases himself from her side and out of the bed. He packs his bags and sets them by the door. He's never liked good-byes and this one will be hard to take.

He stops by the bassinet to watch his slumbering son. One large hand runs over the velvet head, damp with sleepy heat. Turning the blanket down halfway, he rests his palm on Will's lower back, feeling the rise and fall of new breath. He turns the baby onto his back and the cherubic mouth parts as eyelids lift. "Hey," Mulder whispers. Tiny fists rise up garnering an involuntary smile from the man above. "Take care of Mom while I'm gone, huh?"

After so many lonely years, he has planted his feet in the world at last. Now where had he heard that phrase? Odd, he thinks, then sets the thought aside. He turns the baby onto his side and waits until Will relocates his two favorite fingers to suck on. Turning his head over his shoulder, he watches Scully at peace in slumber's sacred embrace.

This woman, this child - they are his and he is theirs. He's more grateful for that Truth than any he's ever pursued, and he will not allow anyone or anything take it away from him. Not ever. Security. It is an illusory concept paid for in warm blood, heavy sweat and healing tears. It has always been so. He wonders what the future holds for himself, his family and his country. There are so many questions and far too few answers for comfort. But then, he's always been good at finding answers.

You just had to know where to look.

End ~ Suspension of a Life in Progress


End file.
